When Bruce woke up, the first thing he felt was the cold—a deep, unrelenting chill that seemed to seep into his very bones. It was more than just physical; it was a sickness that twisted through his veins, an ache so embedded in his body that it felt like part of him, inseparable and relentless.

Then there were the lights—harsh, blinding, and accusing, as though they were punishing him for pushing himself too far, too fast.

But the final thing his senses registered was you. Standing there in a doctor’s coat, white gloves on your hands, a plate of food clutched in one of them. You looked uncertain, as if you didn’t know whether to approach or stay away, unsure how he would react to your presence.

He didn’t recognize you, but there was no mistaking it. You had saved his life, somehow. That much, he was certain.